"Back again, O'Hagan; and in a desperate rush. I'll want you to shave me
and send some telegrams, please. Must be off by one-thirty. You may get out
my grey-striped flannels"--here he paused, calculating his costume with
careful discrimination,--"and a black-striped negligee shirt; grey socks;
russet low shoes; black and white check tie--broad wings. You know where to
find them all?"

"Shure yiss, sor."

O'Hagan showed no evidence of surprise; the eccentricities of Mr. Maitland
could not move him, who was inured to them through long association and
observation. He moved away to execute his instructions, quietly efficient.
By the time Maitland had finished splashing and gasping in the bath-tub,
everything was ready for the ceremony of dressing.

In other words, twenty minutes later Maitland, bathed, shaved, but still in
dressing-gown and slippers, was seated at his desk, a cup of black coffee
steaming at his elbow, a number of yellow telegraph blanks before him, a
pen poised between his fingers.

It was in his mind to send a wire to Cressy, apologizing for his desertion
of the night just gone, and announcing his intention to rejoin the party
from which the motor trip to New York had been as planned but a temporary
defection, in time for dinner that same evening. He nibbled the end of the
pen-holder, selecting phrases, then looked up at the attentive O'Hagan.

"Bring me a New Haven time-table, please," he began, "and--"

The door-bell abrupted his words, clamoring shrilly.